


A Treatise on the Modern Cowboy

by Vulgaritar



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Consensual but Ultimately Unhealthy Relationship, Country Music, Excessive Drinking, Good Guys Doing Bad Things, Gun Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7260355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgaritar/pseuds/Vulgaritar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For outlaw Jesse McCree, joining Blackwatch was just a way to dodge prison. Eventually he called it home. In retrospect, he should have known it was too good to last forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: This work will be a tentative 10 parts exploring McCree's years in Blackwatch and the relationships he established there. The rating will most definitely go to Explicit in future installations. There will probably be some deviation from a few canon events/timeline so consider this your warning if you're a stickler. 
> 
> Chapter Warning: This chapter briefly touches upon the murder of a child as well as some references to suicide. Please read with discretion.

He’s woken up by somebody beating on his cell door.

“Morning, McCree. Ready for breakfast?” a voice taunts him through three inches of steel.

McCree doesn’t bother getting up, let alone answering. He knows by now his food port won’t be opening. Though the prisoner hasn’t done anything to antagonize them since his arrival, Jesse’s relationship with the guards in the super-maximum security unit was undermined by a reputation which proceeded him. It was just McCree’s good fortunate that Sergeant Levy had a cousin who’d been killed by the Deadlock Gang, and five days a week he's the officer in charge of distributing the meals in the unit.

The convicted smuggler doesn’t bother filing a complaint when his door gets skipped. He’s gone hungry before, and trying to fight this bonus retribution will only further piss his tormentor off. Too bad though. Friday is pancake day. He hears they’re not terrible.

Jesse lies in bed for some time before shuffling to his feet. The daily routine has become too routine, but he goes through the motions because it’s all he has to cling to. Like initiating an automated process, McCree changes into his uniform greys, combs his hair, and then brushes his teeth with a toothbrush that barely has handle. He shaves with the pathetic safety razor he’s allowed to have and washes his face in the dirty sink. He looks himself over in the glassless mirror and takes stock of how much he’s withered away since last he’d checked.

 _Thirty-two weeks down,_ he muses. _A long, long time left to go._

Then, same as he does most days, he proceeds to sit in his cell for hours and do nothing.

Weekend visitation starts at noon, and when guards begin escorting prisoners in and out of the unit McCree knows that somewhere beyond the walls the sun is out, high and bright. Inside they keep it dark, and it’s loud as hell. A few hundred inmates choose to pass their time yelling at each other, at the officers, and goading the officers to yell back. They insult the men and make indecent comments to the women, adding to the noise just for the sake of it. Because there’s nothing else to do.

To a free spirit who’s happiest when sitting by a campfire and falling asleep to cricket chirps, incarceration just might be worse than death. And to keep himself from mulling over that idea too much, McCree anchors his thoughts by mumbling along to old songs and people-watching. He leans against his door and stares out the dirty glass window, trying to remember the music he used to listen to back before they caged him up like an animal. One of his favorites is an old Cole Porter tune.

_"Let me be by myself in the evenin' breeze; And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees… Send me off forever but I ask you please; Don't fence me in.”_

The guards open a cell down on the ground level. The inmate comes out swinging, and it takes five C.O.’s, a few solid knocks to the head, and a whole lot of pepper spray to get him under control.

_“Just turn me loose, let me straddle my old saddle; Underneath the western skies; On my cayuse, let me wander over yonder; Till I see the mountains rise.”_

Led by Sergeant Levy, a group of guards start up the stairs to McCree’s floor. Normally only two are needed for an escort detail, but the smuggler doesn’t think much of it. He’s on Restricted Contact. No visitation privileges for him, even if anybody cared enough to come by.

One of the other prisoners starts kicking his door, sending loud booms echoing through the wing. No telling what he's mad about. Maybe nothing.

_“I want to ride to the ridge where the West commences; And gaze at the moon till I lose my senses; And I can't look at hobbles and I can't stand fences; Don't fence me in.”_

He's still singing when Levy and the others stop outside his cell. Levy glares some non-verbal threat at him through the window before keying open the door.

“Cuff up. We’re going for a walk.”

“Where?” asks the smuggler, and he gets a bad feeling.

“Gonna make you watch while I fuck your momma. Shut up and submit to restraints.”

He does, and while they’re chaining him at the wrists and ankles McCree wonders what kind of set-up he’s being led into. Levy doesn’t seem above beating a helpless man, but Officer Flores is in the group she’s probably the straightest arrow on the prison payroll. A hardliner on the rules but fair. McCree turns to her for reassurance this adventure isn’t going to land him in the Infirmary – or worse - but even she’s looking nervous.

But they don't take him out they don’t take him our behind a building where nobody can see, or a room with no security cameras like he’d expected. They actually go _outside_. For the first time in almost a year McCree feels god’s beautiful sunshine on his skin as he’s escorted across the prison grounds, and the warmth of it is so much better than he remembers.

“Enjoy it while you can,” Levy tells him. “This right here? I’m gonna make sure this is the last daylight you see for a long time.”

McCree almost mouths off that they’ll presumably have to walk _back_ to the unit at some point, but he decides to take the old bastard’s advice and not spoil the moment.

Before he's ready to head back indoors they come up on the visitation building. Once inside they round a few corners before coming to a private room. Waiting there with one very unhappy-looking warden is one of the last people Jesse ever expected to see again.

“Commander Reyes. It’s been a while,” McCree greets his visitor, and it _has_ been a long time. Their last point of contact had been two years earlier, on the day when the Overwatch agent had arrested him and turned him over to law enforcement.  

“Goddamn, McCree, you look like shit,” Reyes says after scanning him up and down. While it’s true McCree isn't feeling much like himself these days, Reyes is exactly as he remembers: all hard edges and built like a brick wall. Really fond of the color black. “Thanks for taking the time out of your busy schedule to see me. We need to have some words. Alone.”

It's a pointed way of telling the guards to get lost. Some of the officers try to object at the break in protocol, but the warden orders them out the door without explanation. Levy looks mad enough to spit, but Overwatch is the bigger dog in the fight. Protocol doesn’t mean much to the world’s most powerful international peacekeeping organization. They’ll play nice and polite on the surface, but in the end they’ll do what it takes to get their man.

At the very least Gabriel Reyes will. Jesse can testify to that.

They’re given their privacy, and after McCree negotiates with his restraints to sit down Reyes offers him a cigarette. He gratefully accepts.

“Tracking you down is a hell of a lot easier these days,” Reyes tells him, and McCree decides it’s worth a chuckle. No point in being bitter.

“I’ve been hunted by state police, the feds, Rangers, bounty hunters… I could run circles around them, but not you. Never had a man quite so persistent to make my acquaintance.”

“Yeah, well, I never had a target piss me off as much as you. Four months dogging some asshole cowboy across the southwest expending resources which could have been spent on counter-terrorism was irritating as fuck.”

“I can’t take credit for your skewed priorities, compadre,” McCree replies carefully. The Deadlock Gang was – and still is, by most accounts – one of the biggest distributors in black market hardware. Even so, Jesse never considered them to be in the league of groups like Talon or the O.L.M. That they’d been on Overwatch’s radar at all was surprising.

“Not even going to pretend you’re sorry, McCree?”

“Don’t see much of a reason to. We both know I’d be lyin’, so why waste our time?”

“You’ve got nothing but time after those six murder convictions. That’s on top of the theft, possession of contraband, importing illegal firearms…”

“Most of which I’m happy to concede, but I ain’t ever killed a man who didn’t deserve it. And for the record, it was a lot more than six.”

Reyes shakes his head and snickers.

 “I can’t tell if you like prison or if you’re just fucking stupid.”

“Neither, but cheap apologies won’t undo what the judge did. And I’m guessin’ that’s not what brought you out here anyway.”

McCree is sure Reyes wants information on the Deadlocks and their suppliers. It’s too extensive of a network to take down without an insider’s help, and Jesse has been waiting for the authorities to pull this move on him. Throw a man in high security, make his life miserable for a few months, and then watch him scramble to sell out his old buddies to make a deal. It's the oldest trick in the Prosecutor's Office Playbook, and when he first got locked up he'd sworn never to bite on that line.

Now? Now he's... slightly more amenable. 

“Think back. You recall ever doing business with the 4-12 gang?” the commander asks, and it's a pitch out of left field. McCree raises an eyebrow.

“Barely. Drug runners in New Mexico, real small-time operation. I sold ‘em a couple dozen semi-auto handguns years ago.”

It was a milk run, and the only reason McCree remembers the job at all is because he’d been tempted to cancel the deal. The buyers had rubbed him the wrong way from the start. Their leader was a loudmouth with an ego, and all his bragging about their booming business had annoyed McCree. But he’d already gone to the trouble of hauling the guns across state lines, and the Deadlocks had been sitting on the low-grade inventory for a long time with no offers, so he went ahead and made the sale. They needed the warehouse space.

“Good. Then I don’t have to remind you.” Reyes reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out two pictures. The first is folded up a few times over. The other is a wallet photo. He shows McCree the portrait of a young woman with a bright smile and black hair down to her waist. “Recognize this girl?”

“Can’t say I do.”

Reyes nods like he was expecting that answer.

“The 4-12’s caught some upstarts dealing out of a house in their territory. Those guns they bought off you? They were for taking out the competition, but sloppy handwriting can be a bitch. Instead of going to 227 West Cade where the rival drug house was, the hit squad ended up at 221.” He jabs his finger down on the woman’s picture. “That’s where Herlinda Gutierrez lived with mother, her husband, and their four-year-old daughter.”

McCree’s insides go cold as Reyes tosses the other picture across the table. It sits in front of him, still folded up. There’s a sense of foreboding that keeps him from reaching for it, but the commander’s stare threatens to burn holes into him if he doesn’t. When he finally starts to straighten the paper out the resulting clatter of his chains is almost deafening.

He doesn’t need to look at the picture long. In it four people lay in a row, all face down, hands tied behind their backs. The moment Jesse's eyes find the little girl he turns it over and pushes it away. Reyes tilts his head and watches his reaction.

“Holy shit, you should see your face right now. You really could have used a show of remorse like that at the sentencing hearing. Judge might have reconsidered the ‘no parole’ clause at least.”

“What do you want from me?” McCree croaks. “Info on the 4-12’s? I don’t know much. Only met a few of ‘em the one time.”

“Oh, I definitely didn’t need your help bagging those fuckers. By the way, they were damn quick to throw you under the bus,” Reyes is dismissive. “I just wanted to show you this and see if you give a shit about anyone but yourself. It almost seems like you do, so that’s a good start.”

“Start to what?”

The soldier throws his arms open in a grandiose gesture of mockery and declares, “ _Repentance_ , dumbass! While you and I know better, the law doesn't consider you complicit in this quadruple murder. It's because of that, and the fact you yourself haven’t killed anyone but other criminals, that we’re having this conversation.”

Jesse frowns, not following. Reyes sits back in his chair and breathes out an impatient trail smoke, eyeing the inmate over the glow of his cigarette.

“It’s your lucky day, McCree,” he drawls. “I’m here to offer you a unique opportunity.”


	2. Strike Team Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a man just needs a little push to help get him started. Reyes is willing to push McCree off a cliff if that's what it takes.

It's an hour long flight from Austin to Overwatch's base Colorado. McCree is strongly encouraged by the parole officer to use it as an opportunity to look through the bulging ring binder he's given once they put him in Reyes' custody. Supposedly it details the terms of his provisional release and all the reasons for which it can be revoked. From the tiny font and the sheer thickness of it, there are a lot of restrictions on his newly granted freedom.

He chokes down all of four pages. 

"You know I'm not gonna read all this, right?" Jesse asks, fanning the edges over and over.

"You don't have to," Reyes replies, acting like McCree's fidgeting doesn't bother him. It does. "I'll make it real simple: There is no 'going back to prison' option from here. You try to run, or you fuck up and make me look bad - hell, if you _annoy_ me enough - you're done. Your death will be an unfortunate live-fire training accident that nobody will give enough of a shit to question."

"Great. Don't need this then." Unperturbed by the threat, McCree tosses the binder aside. The commander glares at him as it disappears under a bench seat. "What? You made yourself clear, and I ain't much for pointless readin'."

"Shocking. You come off as such a scholar."

McCree ignores the dig, pops out of his seat, and walks around. He's never been in a private sky shuttle before, and this one is top-of-the-line. There's plenty of expensive looking tech built into her, and she's even got a virtual intelligence running the navigation systems. The part of McCree that once dealt in stolen military hardware takes it all in with an appraising eye, subconsciously noting the most valuable parts and what he could sell them for. Then the outlaw notices Reyes watching him with his lips set into a hard line, and he decides a distraction is in order.

"So, not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but since when is Overwatch filling their ranks with convicts?"

The commander snorts.

"Let's get two things straight right now: First, you are not Overwatch -- not really. Those assholes flit around holding press conferences and posing for statues. My division, of which you are a very tentative draftee, is Blackwatch. We do what's necessary to keep this planet from blowing itself up, and the _good guys_ pretend not to know about what goes on back here."

"And what's the second thing?"

"As far as anyone else is concerned, Blackwatch doesn't exist."

"Huh," is all Jesse says.

"We rely on the U.N. for our sovereignty and for our funding. Overwatch has to be effective, but we also have to present a very specific image that keeps our investors happy."

"And I suppose that image wouldn't benefit much from the presence of lawbreakers and the like."

"You're not as dumb as your arrest record implies."

McCree sits up on a table and minds himself so Reyes can stop feeling so wary. In truth, he has no intention of misbehaving himself. While McCree is skeptical of this arrangement, he's willing to give it a fair shot. He has no desire to go back to the pen, and the soldier is surely expecting him to attempt an escape. McCree hasn't been fitted with any monitoring equipment, but he doubts Overwatch would be so stupid as to not take precautions.

Besides, it's already been established that Reyes can catch him if he runs. A pissed off Reyes could probably do it faster.

"What do you know about the Omnic Crisis?" asks the commander after a few minutes. McCree shrugs.

"No more than anybody else. Still pretty young when they were wrapping it up."

"When _we_ were wrapping it up," Reyes says pointedly. "Most people don't know how close humanity came to losing the war. Every army that we threw at them, the Omnics outmaneuvered. That's the problem with fighting machines: A strategy only works on them once. After that they can analyze it, calculate how to beat it, then beam that information across the world to all the other bots. The thing that made Overwatch successful was diversity. The tin cans couldn't predict us, and that's why we won."

"So you wanted me because I'm unconventional."

"What you _are_ is an undisciplined amateur with no sense of purpose, but you have potential. We'll send you through Qualifications with the other new draftees. Should know pretty quick if you can hack it. "

"Qualifications? You mean like on the shootin' range?"

That makes Reyes grin. He smiles through the entire process of lighting up a cigarette. 

"Yeah. Sure. Except you're firing on a moving target while rappelling down from a helicopter flying at 300 miles per hour. This isn't some backyard game of Cowboys and Indians, jackass. You're the only one in your group who hasn't received any formal training, so you better do whatever it takes to catch up."

"Always been good at improvisin'."

"You better be." Reyes flips open his laptop, and McCree gets the message. Conversation over. "I've got an agency to run and my own team to manage. I don't have time to take on another fucking project."

They arrive at the sprawling compound outside of Durango, and McCree is given a week to settle in. By the reception the other recruits give him he can tell that, once again, his reputation has undermined any chance of making a good first impression. The rest of the group is made mostly of soldiers and law enforcement, each one hand-picked from the most prestigious peacekeeping entities around the world after long careers of proving themselves. And then there's Jesse McCree, a young smuggler they dug out of maximum security prison. His fellow draftees draw a line between them that's impossible to miss: Heroes on one side, criminals on the other.

McCree's first days with Blackwatch are lonely, but the outlaw doesn't bother feeling sorry for himself. He keeps Herlinda Guitierrez's picture to remind him why he shouldn't. 

Despite their troubles outside of training, when drills start the unit pulls together. Nobody is about to allow pettiness to compromise their shot at Overwatch's elite strike force, and they won't let one inexperienced rogue drag them all down. Fortunately, it's not much of an issue. McCree lags behind on the more complicated group maneuvers, but he's spent enough of his life dodging the authorities to know their tactics. Jesse's also surprised to learn that this military-style fighting suits him. He likes having an actual team that works together and watch his back. Shootouts with the Deadlocks always felt like putting guns in the hands of a dozen monkeys and hoping everything panned out. This is much better. It's reassuring to know his backup won't scatter to save their own skins at the first sign of danger.

The individual skills they're taught - survivalism, weapons training, first aid - are old hat for cowboy who once thrived in the inhospitable American southwest. But not everything comes easy to Jesse, and he spends most evenings alone in the training yard, watching demonstration videos on hand-to-hand combat and practicing on the drones. It's late one night and he's trying to work out the diagrams of an old combat manual, but the sum of his willpower isn't enough to keep his mind from wandering. Book-learning has never been his preferred mode of education. 

"What the fuck are you doing?"

McCree jumps, surprised out of a long daydream. Commander Reyes is standing next to him in a pressed suit and jacket, a travel duffel hanging off his shoulder. It's the first McCree has seen him in over two months, and were it not for Reyes' fixed scowl he might not have recognized the man at all. It figures that running Blackwatch wouldn't be skullcaps and kevlar all the time.

"Captain Hegel says I need to work on my counters." Jesse turns to bury his his embarrassment in the book. A moment later it's swiped out of his hands, and Reyes frowns at the illustrations like he can't believe what he's seeing.

"Jesus Christ. You can't learn hand-to-hand combat from a _manual._ "

"Well I ain't learnin' it any other way," the outlaw grumbles.

"I know this is a stretch, but have you considered asking any of the dozen martial artists in your unit to help you?"

Jesse allows silence to speak for him. Overcoming his ego to ask for help wasn't the problem. Getting any of his respectable peers to come down from their pedestal and indulge a struggling criminal was. From the change in Reyes' expression, he seems to work out the issue.

McCree shirks under the scrutiny. He can handle being thought of as a bad fella because he's done things to earn that title. He doesn't even mind when people call him stupid since he knows he isn't. What makes Jesse uncomfortable is pity. That's an ugly, helpless feeling he can't stand.

"There's an Israeli who keeps knockin' me on my backside," he tries to move the subject along, "Somebody said she was trained in Gra-Aga or some place like that. I don't know. Sounded Asian."

"Krav Maga." Reyes pinches the bridge of his nose. "She was trained in Krav Maga."

"Fine, but I don't know where that is either."

The commander tilts his head back and stares up at the sky like he's searching for strength.

"What technique are you struggling with?" he asks, voice strained.

Reluctant, McCree explains the problem. It's a countermove meant to stop a charging opponent, and it's supposed to end with grabbing the attacker's wrist for leverage. There are several steps before getting to that point, however, and he can't get the sequence down. He waits to be mocked for failing at something so simple.

It's a red letter day. Whatever smart remarks Reyes has, he keeps to himself. Instead, he eyes McCree like he doesn't know what to make of the young man.

"Uh... There somethin' you need to say to me?"

"You really are trying, aren't you?"

Jesse doesn't understand the question. 

"You said do whatever it takes to catch up. I'm doin' it."

Reyes appears strangely conflicted for a moment. Then he sighs, shucks off his bag, and starts taking off his jacket. He tells McCree to get in position.

"Really? Ain't you afraid of scuffin' those shiny shoes up?"

"You want help or not, Brokeback? Get ready."

Reyes comes at McCree like the material shows, but he moves slowly enough that McCree has time to react. The recruit forgets some of the steps, and Reyes has to remind him to tuck his hands in, to adjust his stance, to mind his footing. Each time McCree messes up they start over from the beginning, and each time they start over he gets more frustrated. That leads to more mistakes.

Reyes barks at him to get his head on straight. They go through the motions a few more times, and when Jesse still doesn't complete the grab the commander loses his patience.

"I can't make this any fucking easier, McCree!"

"I can't try any fuckin' harder, Reyes!" he shouts back, allowing himself a rare cuss. "I can't fight like this! Thinkin' about where my feet have to be, where I have to keep my hands, where your feet are, if I need to defend my side or if I need to make a move. It's too much to keep track of!"

"That's why you practice! So it becomes reflexive and you don't have to think about it!"

The two men disengage before their tempers get the better of them. McCree takes a moment to breathe and collect himself; Reyes sets his hands on his hips and stares at the ground, deep in thought. At that moment the outlaw expects Reyes to threaten revoking his probation if he doesn't pull himself together. Interestingly, his superior takes a different approach.

"I'm going to come at you again. Forget everything else and just show me how you handle yourself."

McCree nods. This time when Reyes charges at him, the ex-smuggler follows his instinct and drops low. Throwing opponents off their balance is a favorite bar brawl tactic, and knocking a man off his feet is a good way to remove him from a fight. The problem is Reyes is smarter than the average taphouse drunk, and when McCree throws himself forward his target lowers his center of gravity too. Reyes doesn't budge, and Jesse is stuck awkwardly trying to figure what comes next when an elbow slams down into the back of his head.

"See why that doesn't work?" McCree's partner asks while he's still laying on the floor, waiting for his double vision to clear.

"Yep."

"So how're you going to address that problem?"

Once the outlaw recovers he climbs to his feet and they do it again. This time he blocks the elbow, but gets kneed in the groin. The third time he successfully dodges that, but he gets punched in the kidney. The next few runs don't go much better.

"Let's go, Hee-Haw! Hit me like you mean it!"

"I'm about to start meanin' it," McCree wheezes after a kick to the stomach leaves him without the ability to breathe. 

The "break" gives Jesse a chance to reassess. Striking Reyes is like punching the side of a building; the man is built solid, and he shrugs off most direct blows like they're nothing. That's when McCree starts to think about weak points and vulnerabilities and all that other garbage the instructors have been trying to drill into his head.

When he finally bests Reyes, he does it by chopping him in the throat. It's only after his boss is crumpled in a heap and coughing to death does McCree think he should have held back a little.

"Now, I just want to mention that _you_  told me to hit you like-."

"Don't talk," Reyes rasps, hauling himself up. A few strangled breaths later he grunts, "Again."

They continue on like that for a long time, Reyes finding gaps in McCree's approach and hitting him hard enough that Jesse has plenty of incentive to adapt. Gradually, through trial and error, Jesse learns. The final product isn't something any combat instructor would praise too highly, but it works.

It's past midnight when they finally call it quits. They're both worn out and Reyes' suit is a disheveled mess, but he looks at McCree and nods. It could almost be interpreted as a sign of approval.

"You overextend yourself when you go on the offensive. Keep leaving your left side open like that and somebody's going to kick your ass in a bad way," he warns.

"You seen that I can take a punch."

"Sure, now when you're young and full of piss. Let's see if you still feel that way in ten years." The commander straightens his shirt out and begins to collect his things. When he leans over he does so very carefully. "Your reaction time is solid. Good hand-eye coordination. Fuck, I don't know. Maybe if we incorporate enough of the formal shit in we can mash up something that works for you. Or at least will keep your ass alive. Goddamn, you are turning into more of an investment than I bargained for."

"Thought you were too busy to take on another project?"

"I am, but I pulled a lot of strings to get you here, so if you wash out it reflects poorly on me. Be in the practice room tomorrow at 19:00 and we'll pick this up."

Jesse is surprised by how glad he is to hear that, but has the sense not to let it show.

"Thank you, sir," he offers an unusual display of deference. The significance of it is lost on Reyes.

"Thank me by being less of a disaster."

McCree does his best to oblige the commander's request over the coming months. The effort seems to take, and when the time comes he passes his Qualifications with what the instructors describe as, "a distinctly old-school approach resulting in exceptional scores" in most categories. The one exception is self-defense. All they write on that line is, "Passable".

"I didn't bust my ass just to make you _passable_ , McCree," Reyes snaps when he reads the evaluation notes. "I'm assigning you to Strike Team Black. Get your shit together if you want to stay on it."

"Understood," McCree says. He knows by now Reyes hands out threats like candy, and he's not going to let it dampen his mood. Jesse McCree went from maximum security to global security inside the scope of a year. He thinks that's something he can be proud of. "Black, you said? Who do I need to report to?"  

Reyes arches an eyebrow.

"That would be me, Hayseed. Welcome to Overwatch. Try not to die."


	3. The Indian Damsels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason why Blackwatch don't call themselves heroes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I bumped the original chapter 3 for later, and this one needed a serious rewrite after I realized it had gotten too dark and 'fridged-wifey. Whoops!
> 
> EDIT: Due to a teeny weensy mathematical flub in the floating timeline I'm running with, a couple lines of dialog have changed. Odds are Blizzard will come along and totally invalidate his whole fic in a canon update anyway, so, I mean, whatever. Rolling with it. Whee.
> 
> This chapter contains human trafficking and some racist comments. Please read with discretion.

Nine months after he's given the chance to turn his life around for the better Jesse McCree is back to selling contraband guns.

"This is unacceptable. Wilkes said he could fill the order for half of this price," the man who calls himself "Nichita" argues. Maybe he thinks that here in his warehouse, surrounded by armed insurgents, he has the upper hand in the negotiations. Maybe he thinks he can bully McCree back down to the original deal under threat of death.

Under any other circumstance he'd be right.

"Yeah? Well, Wilkes got himself shot dead for makin' other promises he wasn't good for, so you get to deal with me now." McCree takes his time lighting up a cigarette. "Look, I get it. You woke up today thinkin' you were gonna kit out an army for chump change, now you're feelin' mighty disappointed. The good news is I ain't an unreasonable man. If you really want to pay the price you worked out with my predecessor, I can get you guns. They'll be cheap Mexican lead-spitters that won't shoot straight and jam on every reload, but they'll last a couple years before they bust."

McCree knows how risky it is to change the terms of a deal after hands have already been shaken on it. People who buy truckloads of military-grade weapons off the black market tend to get jittery when things don't go as planned, and they've already traded McCree for the "late" Wilkes. Micky Wilkes is actually in Blackwatch custody, selling out every associate, supplier, and buyer he can name in order to reduce his prison sentence. Unlike Jesse, he won't be offered a free pass down the line.

Nichita and is partner, Alexi, trade looks. McCree senses the marks need could use some more enticing.

"Gentlemen, I didn't travel across the Atlantic just to ruin your day. I'd very much like us all to walk out of here confident that we all came out ahead. As you know, barring Overwatch, the U.S. Army is the best equipped fightin' force in the world. This lot I'm sellin' is the same gear their guys are usin' in the field right now. If you plan to trade bullets with anyone in the foreseeable future there ain't nothin' better to invest your money in."

The sales pitch seems to land. The men ask for a moment to speak privately, and McCree happily lets them step away. Slinking off to regroup is an amateur play at the bargaining table, and it's an encouraging sign. It tells the cowboy that they're on the hook, even if they're in way over heads. Jesse knows full well they don't have the money he's asking for, and he's already planted the idea of another prospective customer waiting in the winds. The idea is to make them desperate enough to show their hand, and there's a lot riding on McCree to make it happen.

The cowboy burns through two whole cigarettes while he waits. 

When the Ukrainians finally come back Nichita looks apprehensive, but Alexi wears the confidence of a man who's just come up with a bright idea. McCree had known all along who was going to be the easier sell. 

"We don't have enough cash to meet the new price, but we have... valuable assets," the man explains. McCree, careful not to seem dismissive, shrugs a shoulder.

"Then maybe you oughta liquidate some of those assets and get back to me."

Alexi gives a nervous chuckle.

"These wares cannot be, ah...  _liquidated_. They must be carefully moved and distributed." He pauses, searching McCree for a reaction as he adds: "And trained."

Jesse's stomach tightens, but he plays along.

"Now, if I'm followin' you right, it might be that we can work somethin' out. I'd have to see the merchandise before committin' to anything though."

"Of course. We happen to have some product here that we can show you."

They take McCree deeper into the sprawling warehouse, and the gun dealer notes the security. Guards posted outside tote old Volskaya assault rifles by the dozens, but inside most everyone is equipped with hi-tech Vishkar toys. Designed for riot control, the equipment is non-lethal and meant to subdue. Gear like that isn't for keeping people out. It's to keep people in.

Jesse find himself living out the plot of a bad movie as he's guided to a cargo container. He already knows what's waiting inside, and he needs to confirm it, but he can feel the dread begin to seep into his heart. Alexi orders some men to unlock the doors, and when they open the steel cargo unit the foulness that spills out into the air is the worst thing McCree has ever smelled in his life. He puts the back of his hand to his face and swears by the lord's name.

"Apologies for the odor. We'd have hosed them down, but we weren't expecting to show them today," Nichita says. Even he's knocked off-kilter from the stench.

 _You ain't got no right,_  McCree thinks.  _This unholiness is your doin'._

A single light bulb swinging low illuminates a human tragedy. Stepping inside, McCree counts twenty girls, lined up shoulder to shoulder along the walls of the container. Shackled to hooks welded into the floor, they're dressed in scraps of filthy clothing and their hair is matted into gnarled knots. McCree walks the length of their makeshift cell, inspecting each. Most appear to be young teens, and a few are visibly sick. Some of the girls shy away as he passes. Others cry, and a few start to pray in a language he can't understand.

The ones that bother him the most are the ones who don't react at all. There's not enough spirit left in them to care.

When he retreats out McCree has the gall to feel relieved until the doors slam shut behind him. Then the guilt sets in.

"Well? What do you think?"

The slavers are staring at him expectantly, waiting for a decision. Jesse swallows hard and shakes his head clear of everything else.

"My business is in the States. Back home, we can get brown girls for next to nothin'."

"These are not like the brown girls you have in the Americas, my friend. These are  _Indians_. They are beautiful, they sing, they dance, they cook. They know how to take care of a man, right? It's in their blood." It's Alexi's turn to make a sales pitch, and Jesse's hand itches to throw a punch. He hooks his thumbs into his belt to anchor his fists there. "The going rate is eight thousand dollars each, but since you will be transporting them far, we will let them go for seven."

"It don't matter. Where I come from there's no market for anythin' but caucasians."

Nichita withdraws a bit more. McCree worries he may have pushed too hard. He knows their operation is responsible for selling Indian and Russian nationals, and they need to uncover the supply chains for both. But the more he pushes, the more cautious the ringleader gets.

Luckily for McCree, Alexi is less careful.

"We do have another supplier. The Omnic war in Russia has refugees fleeing the country. Nobody can keep track of where they all end up. The girls have accents, but they are white and most speak English. They will cost considerably more, however."

Jesse spends the next half hour negotiating down the value of a human life. As much as he'd like to leave this cesspool and call in the cavalry, he can't jeopardize the operation by being too eager to accept a bad bid. Eventually they settle on a number, and McCree agrees to trade a stockpile of stolen munitions for the agreed-upon cash price, supplemented by forty young Russian women. The Ukrainians tell him they need ten days to import their "product", and the Blackwatch agent responds by saying he will have his merchandise shipped over from America. It will give Strike Team Red plenty of time to come and reinforce their numbers.

That night, back at the hotel, McCree's body feels heavier than it should. He trudges up to the suite that has become the their operation's command center and finds Reyes along with Huang and Woods. The three of them are pouring over attack plans, listening to audio playbacks from the meeting, formulating strategies. Woods is the first to greet Jesse, and she does so with a tired smile.

"Good job in there. We knew they had captives on site, but I can't believe they actually showed them to you."

"They were desperate to save the deal. It made them careless," Huang says in her ever-analytical way, "but now they have time to think about how impulsively they acted. If they decide to back out then that makes McCree a loose end."

Reyes shrugs at Jesse and says, "Next time you go in they'll probably kill you."

"Let 'em try."

The challenge comes out more cavalier than McCree means it to. His squadmates needle him for his gung-ho attitude until he drops down to his bunk, claiming to be tired. He _is_ tired, but he won't sleep. Jesse lies with his arm draped over his eyes, listening to the other agents plan and trying not to think about the godawful stench in the cargo container.

After an hour passes Woods goes on a food run, and Huang steps out for a smoke. That leaves just McCree and Reyes in the room. The commander doesn't bother asking if he's awake.

"You holding up there, Rodeo?"

McCree sighs, scrubs his face with his palms, and rolls over to look at Reyes. "I like the shootin' parts of this job a lot better."

"Playing a slave-trading slimelord doesn't suit you? You were pretty damn convincing in there."

"This business leaves me feelin' dirty under my skin."

"It'll go away once we take the sons of bitches down."

McCree clings to the hope.

"Just wish we could help the captives they've got in there. They way they got those girls chained together, what they're plannin' for 'em..." McCree drops his head back onto his pillow. As flimsy as the hotel bedding is, it seems wrong to enjoy the small comfort when twenty minutes away there are young women sleeping on top of each other.

"I've got Meyers, Svari, and Nguyen watching the warehouse. The abductees aren't going anywhere, but we do need them to stick it out until we can get more on the Russian supply chain. I don't want to put all of our chips on Alexi and Nichita in case they don't talk."

"Ten days can feel like a long time when you're locked up in the dark, Reyes."

The commander frowns. He must hear something in McCree that concerns him.

"Hey. The traffickers are already nervous. We can't change frontmen again, so I need you to hold it together and finish this job."

McCree nods. The simple gesture takes a lot more effort than it should.

The next few days are spent monitoring the warehouse from a distance, identifying the men involved, and learning their patterns. Human trafficking is only one part of their business, and they constantly have people going in and out. Scouts are posted 24/7, but no shipping containers are observed being taken away. Huang repeatedly notes it's strange that after a week the smugglers still haven't relocated the Indians.

While they wait for their backup, Reyes and the team work on their plan of attack. Most conventional strategies for taking an enemy location would put the hostages in danger, so they ultimately decide on what Reyes calls the "Trojan Horse" approach. McCree will take in a small group under pretense of delivering the guns. Once close enough to defend the captives they would give the signal for the rest of the squad to move in. It's a dangerous idea, and it puts them in the middle of the enemy force when things get hot, but McCree points out that most resistance inside the warehouse is armed with non-lethal weapons. Not  _all_  of it, but enough that it won't be a guaranteed suicide mission. 

It's Day 8. Just a few hours before Strike Team Red is scheduled to arrive, McCree and Reyes are out picking up dinner when their communication officer hails.

 _"Commander, we've got problems,"_   Woods' voice cracks over their radios.

"Danvers got sick, I bet. Told him that fish soup wasn't no good to eat after three days," McCree says, struggling to make sense of the foreign currency in his hands. Reyes takes the money to pay and tells McCree to be quiet.

"Go, Woods."

 _"Meyers is reporting high activity at the target site. A lot of people leaving in a hurry. I happened to flip on the TV, and... Oh, shit."_  There's some more muffled swearing, then Woods pops back on the line. " _Okay. Yeah. A_ _freight truck was stopped at the border two hours ago. The media is all over the story,_ _saying the drivers were caught_ _with forty Russian war refugees locked in wooden boxes._ _We are officially international news, Sir."_

Reyes and McCree leave the restaurant without their food and run back to the old pickup they've been using to get around. McCree is barely in the cab when Reyes floors the gas, and the the commander is barking out orders so fast that Jesse can't get enough of a word in to tell Reyes he's driving on the wrong side of the road.

"Woods, have anyone who isn't already there kit up and meet us at the warehouse. Tell them to watch out for Nichita and Alexi. They get away from us and this whole job is fucked."

_"Understood, Commander._

"Goddamn it!" Reyes roars, and he punches the dash hard enough that the console buckles in. "Of all the abducted people that have been smuggled across this continent, the border cops manage to find the ones we  _want_  to get through?" He glares at McCree and demands to know, "Do you have your gear?"

"Just my gun and the six bullets in it."

Reyes's hand falls on his own sidearm to confirm it's there. Between the two of them they only sport a revolver and a pistol, but they don't have time to go back. Reyes' shotguns, their vests, their grenades and reserve ammo -- they would have to do without. Not the best idea, given their targets are armed and panicking.

_"Sir, Myers says a flatbed just bolted out of the warehouse like a bat out of hell. It's carrying a shipping container that matches the one McCree described. Headed south."_

"They're runnin' before the Russian drivers can sell 'em out. Must be plannin' to ship the girls somewhere else." Geography isn't McCree's strong suit, but he knows if the shipping container gets to the Black Sea then the girls inside could be headed anywhere. Even with satellite monitoring, it would be damn near impossible to target one ship amidst thousands on the busy waterway. The captives could disappear into Europe, Africa, the Middle East-

"They're probably just going to dump the container in the sea," Reyes says, crashing McCree's train of thought. 

_"Scouts need to know if they should pursue or hold position, Commander."_

"Let the truck go. Maintain the perimeter; do not let the ringleaders slip past us."

McCree balks at Reyes.

"You're gonna let 'em go? You just said they may be fixin' to kill those girls!" 

"Those girls were dead the moment you refused to buy them. Why did you think the slavers have been holding on to them this whole time? They can't move the product. Now they're a liability."

The apathy with which Reyes explains it leaves McCree stunned. It does not, however, leave him locked up. At no point does he make a conscious decision to do it; he simply draws his weapon at the threat of danger, same as always.  Jesse's hands have always been quicker to apply themselves to a situation than his judgement. It's gotten him in plenty of trouble in the past. When his brain catches up to what he's doing, McCree is sure pulling his gun on Reyes will net him more of the same.

"Order the scouts to follow."

"You're real cute, Buttercup, but I'm not going to do that."

"Then stop the truck and get out," he growls at the commander. For better or for worse, he's committed.

Reyes looks at the gun pointed at him, then past it to the wielder. Shaking his head, he lets out a bitter, impatient chuckle.

"Huang was right. We never should have used you for this."

" _Now_ , you heartless piece a' shit!"

"Nichita and Alexi are now the only ones who can point us to the Russian suppliers. If they get away-"

"Last warnin', Reyes, I swear to God."

"- _if_ they get away, two massive human trafficking rings will go to ground, relocate, and continue business as usual. We may not find them again for years, if ever. And while you're patting yourself on the back for being the hero, the assholes you let escape will be out kidnapping the next group to make up for the shipment they lost."

"I don't know what you thought I was when you set about recruitin' me, but I ain't a monster," McCree spits. 

"Then shoot me, genius. Although that begs the question: then what? You gonna drive out to the coast, hope you manage to find the truck, swim out into the sea, and drag a five-thousand pound shipping container out of the water by hand? Good plan. I like your odds." Reyes shoots him a glare as they come up on the edge of the city. They're getting close to the industrial district. "Hurry up and choose. Do you want to go watch a couple people drown, or do you want to do something that will actually save some lives?"

Hours pass in the course of a few seconds. McCree stares down Reyes, angry and craving the instant satisfaction that comes from putting down a man who has it coming. He doesn't give in to the urge, though. Jesse's hands have always been quicker than his better judgement, but in the back of Jesse's mind he knows the commander is right. McCree's finger twitches away from the trigger, and all of his restraint and self-control together manage to get the gun put back in its holster.

The commander steers the pickup north, bound for the warehouse. 

"Dumbass," Reyes snorts, and that's the end of it.

Blackwatch accomplishes its mission quickly and efficiently, just as it always does. The strike team takes advantage of their enemy's panic to move in, eliminate the resistance, secure key players, and organize a quick extraction. Red Team arrives just in time to help them clean house and get out. It wouldn't sit well with the international community to learn Overwatch had been conducting an unauthorized investigation in a sovereign state, or that they'd arranged to purchase slaves during the course of it. They especially would not be pleased that some had died.

McCree sure as hell isn't. 

It's a quiet flight back to Colorado, but that doesn't mean it's peaceful. McCree spends a few hours pacing the shuttle, getting progressively angrier the more he thinks about it. The other agents give him a wide berth. Huang tries to talk him down at one point, but there's a rage building in him he can't let go of. Finally the cowboy sets out to confront Reyes. He expects to find the commander up at the shuttle controls; he does not expect to nearly trip over the man's legs as he storms around the bulkhead. Reyes is sitting on the floor, nursing a flask. 

"Six years," the man mumbles after a moment. McCree frowns.

"What?"

"The average career of a Blackwatch operative is six years. That's how long it takes for this job to chew up the most capable people in the world and cause them to burn out, go crazy, or-"

Reyes makes a gun with his fingers and pulls the "trigger" against his head.

"Seems like you been at it too long," McCree snaps, folding his arms. Reyes snickers. 

"What, because of today? That was a good call. I stand by that call. Give me the same situation and I wouldn't change a thing, aside from not throwing you out of the truck for that stunt you pulled."

"I knew you were a bastard, but I didn't think you could'a done anything like this. You are so damn far out of line."

" _Me?_  Let me ask you something, horseshit: We've got ten people on this team. Did you notice you were the only one who objected to my orders? That nobody else went full-on Clint Eastwood in righteous indignation?" Reyes waits for an answer. The alcohol has dulled his edge some, but when he stares McCree down it's with a familiar intensity. "No? That's because the rest of these guys already understand that we aren't heroes. Our job isn't to save the day. It's to save tomorrow, and doing that sometimes means siding with the lesser of two evils, being badder than the bad guys, and yes, even letting the occasional damsel in distress die. You're still green and stupid, but you'll learn." He settles back and puts the flask to his lips. "You'll learn or you won't even make it six years."

"I didn't go to prison for killin' innocent people. Won't do it for you now just 'cause you pulled me out."

"How'd you kill innocent people today? You didn't put those girls in that box. You didn't create a global demand for human slaves. Anyway, the captives aren't dead, so I don't get why this is such a fucking issue."

"It's an issue because w-woah, woah. Back up. What'd you just say?"

Reyes rolls his eyes.

"Woods has been my comm officer for over a decade, Cletus. I don't have to micromanage her like I do you. And also unlike you, she knows that when I say something like 'let the truck go', I don't actually mean 'let a crate full of kids drown because I don't give a shit'. She tipped off the Ukrainian Port Authority - like I  _expected_ her to - and they stopped the truck before it reached the coast. The government is taking care of the Indians."

Reyes tips his head back and drains the flask like its full of water, oblivious to McCree's attempts to burn holes through him with his eyes.

"Why didn't you just tell me that in the first place?" the convict bellows.

"Because I can't stop in the middle of every crisis to dust you off and make promises that everything will be alright! You follow my orders, you do your damn job, and you trust me to make the right decisions because that is _my_ job! That is how this agency works. Get used to it."

McCree stands there, not sure what to do with himself. He's torn between walking away, yelling, and decking his superior officer. He even entertains the thought of introducing his boot to Reyes' ass with a due amount of force. Ultimately he settles on taking a deep breath, letting it out real slow, and settling down next to the commander.

"Hand the booze over, old man." 

"Fuck off, Huckleberry," Reyes grunts back, but he passes the flask over anyway. Without thinking, McCree helps himself to a huge swig. He immediately regrets the decision. 

"Holy damn! What is that, gasoline?"

"Cheap whiskey," Reyes mutters, "mixed with cheap gin and... whatever was left in there after Bogota."

"Cheap tequila, I reckon. _Whoo_." McCree scrunches his nose at the unhappy mixture before hitting it again, though more cautious this time. 

The men sit in something less than amicable silence, passing the flask back and forth until the there's only the last mouthful of swill at the bottom they're both reluctant to touch. McCree is no lightweight, but there's already a comforting warmth in his cheeks and a tingling through his limbs. With all he's put away, Jesse idly wonders how Reyes is managing to stay upright.

"You know, you're a real son of a bitch, Sir," he tells his boss for no reason in particular. He knows what kind of response it'll warrant.

"This from the insubordinate little fuck who attempted to carjack me at gunpoint today and is now drinking my liquor."

It's McCree's turn to laugh.

"Well, don't fret, Commander," he says, and he finishes off the last of Reyes' alcohol. After the sting in his throat passes he smiles tightly at his companion. "Statistically speakin', we only gotta put up with each other for five more years."


End file.
